Courage

Courage sits funnily on young peoples shoulders. 


It's awkward and it fumbles a bit. It peers out from behind shivering fingers and shrinks back behind curtains of curly, permed, straight or wavy hair. 


But when it decides to step out and make itself known, it does so in the most remarkable ways. 


It comes with tears that one girl weeps as she tells you she has accepted defeat with her head held high, choosing to look forward with the grace of a woman . 


It glistens on the cheek of another girl as she opens her heart to another human being for the first time, setting her fear of judgement aside.


It nestles in the handshake of a young boy who admits a fault and tries to make amends by stammering an apology.


It sings and dances with the girls and boys who walk out to an audience of skeptics with their self-esteem on the line.


It hides in one boy's hesitant and then firm refusal to name a spiteful critic.


It lies in the collective conscience of a classroom, in the silent support of a friend, in the everyday comings and goings of the mirth and the hurt that colour every classroom.


And that is what teaching has taught me. That courage often sits awkwardly. On the most awkward shoulders. 


And only the truly blessed can see it every day.

The Sweet Sound Of Music

Yesterday, as I stood watching a group of my students perform The Sound of Music on stage, I had a powerful feeling in my gut.

It was a sensation that had me feeling like I was aligned to the universe, fully and absolutely. It caught me by surprise. And for one blinding moment, I felt so deeply grateful to the powers that be, so completely taken by the whole thing that I went numb with gratitude.

The show was amazing. My students were so brave, so young, so new to the shining lights and yet looked to itt with courage beyond their years. I was in absolute awe. From start to finish, they were the stars. They did it all- costumes, props, drama, dancing, music arrangement and singing too.

And as the curtains were drawn for the finale, and the crowd erupted, everything that I had fought for in the past two years fell into place. The doubt, the indecision, the constant justifications to everyone around, that I just had to try teaching, everything just melted away. I was humbled by the sheer strength of the feeling that hit my gut.

The universe does conspire to give you what you want sometimes. And in that moment when it does, you feel with every fibre of your being that living with your convictions, regardless of the odds isn't such a bad thing after all. 

Here And There

Here, where we live, above the mist and in the sunshine, among the summer birds and the cool breeze, here there is light.


And somewhere far below, are nights that don't bring any mornings. Indeed the darkness is so very thick that nothing penetrates it. Not the warmth of love, not the steadfastness of hope, not the shrill cackle of laughter. Nothing moves here. Not the air, nor the heart. Stillness sings a song of despair. And everyday, people are born into these spaces.


Like little Falak. Like the other little seven year old girl whose mother branded her, tortured her for years. Like all the little boys and girls who have nobody to call their own. Who have no voice, who don't know laughter and goodness. Like all the children who have never known a single moment of love. Like all the horror stories we will never hear of because the Mist won't allow them to penetrate into our world.


And if they do, by any chance of fate, who's really going to be listening anyway?

Womanhood And Steel

All these women. Seated side by side, colour against colour, texture against texture.
 Each heart beating with life and longing.


 Some stinging with hate, some broken by fate, some softer for the years they have witnessed, some harder for all of life's lessons.


Some smile with their toes, some with their hands. Some sing to distant memories, some to the shadows of yesterday.


And some women, they smile to their secret selves. To the spark that will light tomorrow's fire.


Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives and lovers. They sit together, their dreams and thoughts rising upwards, floating mists of wanting, coloured wisps of love, hate and everything in between intertwining invisibly inside the confining compartment of steel.


How far apart we all are and yet how very close.

Tejaswee Rao

I didn't know Tejaswee Rao. I stumbled across her blog as I browsed through the Internet, looking for my next blogger fix.

As I read the very first post,I felt an overwhelming sense of loss wash over me. I had stumbled across somebody who shared so much of my world vision, a kindred spirit, perhaps even a faceless friend.

And as I read a post about her take on Growing Old and Dying Early, I felt a lump in my throat. For the girl who said she wanted to be immortal. For the girl who felt one lifetime wasn't enough to experience the world in all its glory, it was suddenly over too soon.

I thought a part of me had become numb to the idea of death. Perhaps more accepting.  Somehow a complete stranger slit the wound open.

And I mourned again. For the girl who wanted it all. For the beautiful being that was. For all the maybes and the ought-to-bes. For the unborn daughter she wrote a letter to. For all the women of substance who would have lost a sister. For the world, because a light had been put out.

I don't know what it is about death, but it breeds a sense of familiarity with complete strangers.

I feel Tejaswee's loss like she was part of my life. Like I feel little Shraddha's. When their loved ones write to them and about them, I grieve along.

We are all so strange to believe we are very separate beings when we are connected so closely by threads deeper than we know or realise.

Tejaswee, you are an inspiration. I know that we've never met, and perhaps on this plane we never will, but you must know that your life will not go unappreciated, your words will never go unread and you will never be forgotten.

Even by a complete stranger.

The Stuff Of Life

This, this is the stuff of life.


We sing, we laugh and we tiptoe across fragile lines together, onto horizons we cannot see with our eyes but with our hearts.


We join hands and we pray for tomorrows that dance around corners and behind curtained windows, their shadows rising and falling to remind us to breathe as we swirl around in our own private whirlwinds.


We share stories and we look together through the same skylight at stars we know we have wished upon before, stars we know have not deserted us on the days when our bonds seemed so weak they could turn to dust at any moment.


And we turn our faces to the sun and drink in the light as we give thanks. For friends, for family, for laughter and love and song and hope. For the faith that carries us unto tomorrow, for forgiveness, for the power of being human.


We give thanks, because this, this is the stuff of life.

Colour, Chaos

There is something about catching the train again after a gap of two years.

I still hate the distance, but  I find myself constantly captured by the sounds and the sights in the confines of the bogie. They're not new. They're not even remotely beyond the mundane. And yet I find them fascinating.

After  two years of travelling on the tube in London, I know all about personal space. It's amazing to be able to actually have a seat with hand-rests (even if you only manage to squeeze either one elbow on there, never both at once). It's also great to be able to walk into a compartment and not be yelled at, shoved or pushed into it. It's also entertaining to overhear exceptionally drunk people make conversation. Once, an entire side of the bogie was dragged into an introduction session by a drunk man pretending to hold a mike to everybody, one at a time. By the end of the spectacular commentary he had put up for us, we were all laughing so hard, we couldn't sit up straight.

But as much as I loved being on the tube, I hated it. I felt closed-in. Cloistered. Stifled. I felt like I was coming up for air every time I exited a station, and I never once felt inspired to write on the tube. Perhaps the shortcoming is in me. After all, who in their right mind wishes for the Mumbai Local over the London Underground?

And here I am, in the heart of the mess, in the eye of the Mumbaikar's everyday storm, sitting on a crooked seat, having my toes stepped on, screaming back at the rude women, and yet feeling a mixture of weariness and wonder all at once.

Because as much as I loved convenience and the sanity on the tube, I have never felt the sense of wonder I feel when on the local. This madness, this colour and this infinite chaos is what keeps me going every day. This raw, unyielding, unbending city is what gave me my first real understanding of life and the way the world works.

This is where my heart will always lie.

On the trains. In the rickshaws. Under the cool stone archways of a beautiful old building. In a ground floor flat filled with memories. Over multi-coloured buildings and sinking bridges. In the window seat of the BEST buses. Inside cars with raindrops trickling down windows. In the muck and the dirt of my shoes. In the love and the laughter on the streets. On the leaves of the dusty trees. On the crooked signboards and in the neon lights. In the shadows in the sun. In the heat and the grime. In the asymmetry. In the madness.

In the colour and the chaos.

Dream

What is it you dream of when your eyelids glide gently over your eyes...

Do you dream of the mornings you spent nestled in your mother's cotton sari, or of the taste of the sour pickles your grandmother fed you as a child?

Do you dream of  cold hearts and warm sheets, or of singing in the sun, your face turned upward to bathe in the yellow? 

Do you dream of loss and heartbreak, do you dream the bittersweet scent of the past? Or the colours of your future, the twists of the snaking lines on the inside of your palm?

Do you dream of laughter and children's eyes as they grow wide with wonder, or of the breeze that courses through the reeds as they dance in the summer breeze? 

Do you dream of song?
Do you dream of stillness, in heart and mind? Or of quiet spells when the raindrops come around for company?

Do you dream of death? Or of crescendos? Of birds in flight, of orchestras in symphony? Do you dream of the violin as it stirs your memories and sweeps them into dance?

Do you dream of worlds that dangle in galaxies far away or of the taste of longing? Do you dream of the feel of chiffon and lace?

Do you dream melancholy or do you dream sunshine? Do you dream with your heart bursting at the seams, or with your soul tightly shut?

Do you murmur to the stars or speak softly to the shadows? Do your eyelids shiver as you see, memories of white, flashes of red?

Do you dream of clouds swimming in clear skies, or rivers of blood meandering along the banks of war? Do you dream of screams and scars?

Do you dream of freedom and light? Do you dream of passion and victory?

Do you dream a dream?

Do you dream?

Three

Backdated to November 8, 2011


For the first time since your passing, we sat down together and laughed (mostly at me, as always). We were always close but losing you brought us closer.

It's always going to be a piece of the puzzle missing. And now, when we have so much to look forward to, you aren't going to be around to see it come together. I bet Nikhit went crazy when we went looking for a suit for him. He would have liked a brother's opinion. He would have liked it very much.

And I don't know how we're going to do it. I don't know how we'll make it through those two weeks without you to lighten us and everybody else up. I'll lose my mind and nobody will be able to make me laugh like you could. We'll probably all end up killing each other. I'm looking forward to it, but it's never going to be all it could have been. And that is the heartbreaking bit.

I know you will be there, and I know you'll be watching and laughing and making awful jokes about me being so young and all ;)

Three years on, I hope you have found your space, and I hope you've got the dates for next year properly sorted where you are. You can't miss it for the world.

Creative Writing, SYBMM Style

Yesterday, I sat down to mark some of my students' projects, one that I had asked them to give in for my Creative Writing class.

The basic idea was to get them to develop a means of self-expression. One that started with writing about their lives, their experiences and memories, their stories. As part of the project, they were to write:

a) a character sketch of somebody who inspired them (could be anyone, a best friend, a family member...)
b) a letter to their past
c) a poem
d) a song or a photo essay
e) a story: either of them in first person (as a superhero) or in third person as the protagonist

Needless to say there was much moaning and groaning as I gave them the guidelines.

But yesterday as I looked through them, I was absolutely amazed at the work I'd been given. Almost everyone managed to touch a chord somewhere. And that can only come from really inspired writing.

As I sat poring over intimate details of their lives, I was moved by the sheer honesty in the writing. Here were a bunch of raucous teens, pouring their hearts out to somebody who was in most respects a complete stranger. It defied all the logic in the universe.

And the reason this is an open blog again now is this; if my students could open up their lives and hearts to me, and if they could take a giant leap of faith and express themselves without fear of judgement and censure, and if they could share their strongest and most personal memories with me, surely I couldn't be the one to hold back mine.

Surely I had to learn a thing or two from them.

Hollaback Mumbai

Hi all,

Hollaback Mumbai chose to publish my article about Keenan and Reuben, so please do check it out.

http://mumbai.ihollaback.org/2011/11/04/to-keenan-and-reuben-the-boys-who-did-not-look-away/

The site is a great place to read about their story and is also part of an international campaign against street harassment. It's an excellent place to discuss our eve-teasing issues and comment on other people's views of the same. Remember, discourse is everything!

I Wonder...

Where love goes when it disappears

What the inside of my mother’s mind looks like

If my fingers talk to each other while they work

What turning one hundred must feel like

Who nightingales really sing for

Why the weeping willow looks so sad

How people can resist the urge to smile back at someone

How books feel when they’re given away

Where the star hides that abused children wish upon

What do you wonder?

The Mushroom Cloud

When the wind is put out

And the sun dries up,

When we have discovered

All there is to discover

When we have fixed

All there is to fix

When every mystery has been unearthed,

And every story has been told,

What then.

When we have walked through every door of change

And staffed the factories of our fate,

When the might of the strong

Has triumphed over the will of the weak,

After we have praised our warlords

And buried our dead,

What then.

When we have shown the world our guns

And stilled the hearts of our young

When the sky is heavy with fear

When all our grace lies diseased

What then.

When every star has lost its luster

And when the morning brings the dark

And when our hearts stop singing

Because we have forgotten the words,

What then?

The Fabric of the Being

When we see- with our eyes and our minds, the fabric with which a person is made, sometimes the texture deceives us. We don’t believe it could be possible not to like the texture before us. The familiar feel of that piece of cloth that we think we know so well; that we understand combinations and recognize the finer embroidery of.

Nothing can sweeten the bitter taste in our minds, when we realize we are so utterly and irreversibly wrong.

For this is how we all are.  We are of a certain weave. How strong or how weak the threads depend on the creation of the cloth. Sometimes the weave is so transparent, so very simple, and other times, it is thick and opaque. Some look fine, but wear easily. Others look shabby and rough, but are full of strength.

And no matter what size, shape or colour we are, we have our holes. Sooner or later, we are all left threadbare. Painstakingly, we begin to sew ourselves back together. We weave our own thread. And when we look back, these seem like the most colourful patches.

What is the fabric of your being?

Sanchi

Flashes of red,
Slivers of mustard yellow,
An eyelid shivering in prayer.
Quiet stone
Soaking in fervent words,
The heart's steady beat,
Echoing in the silence.

The Festival of Lights

Every year for the past three years, we have lost loved ones. As a result, every festival has been approached with trepidation. Or with real dread. Sometimes days blend into each other and before we know it, the festivals have come and gone.

When we did celebrate, Diwali was always a fun affair. Lights, sweets, flowers- the works. When I was in the UK, I'd yearn to walk the streets of Bombay, taking in the lights- soaking in all the diyas that graced the most unassuming doorways, all the cheer that emanated from the houses of people who seemed to have the least. Diwali was and has always been a perspective-maker.

Last year too, though I was away, I had a lovely Diwali. This Diwali, out of respect for another two loved ones lost, we put up lights inside our home, rather than outside. We bought some flowers, and floated some candles. And we had a quiet Diwali.

I thought to myself how awfully sad it was that so many people wouldn't be around to see the lights. And then I thought how sad it would be if we, who lived on, forgot to live life, forgot how to celebrate, until our time came- until all our chances were over.

We must mourn our losses. And grieve for them. But this Diwali, as I lit a diya and thought of all the people we have lost, I also realized that and we must learn to move on.

A light-filled Diwali to you all.

A Toast

One moment.

One moment in between all the manic, chaotic, frenzied flower-throwing, and mantra-chanting. In between the giggles and grins, the sharp intakes of breath and the slow sighs. In between the teary eyes and watery smiles, and a jumble of hopes and dreams and flashes of eternity.

In a sliver of time just a split second after the tali was tied, the bride and the groom exchanged a smile.

And in that one moment was an entire lifetime. Of a future that would be built together. (Perhaps it also held a sense of relief that the intense ceremony was nearing the end.)

Finally having the fortune to attend the marriage of two close friends (after missing countless others before), I was poised with my camera, waiting to snap every emotion and store it within my little black box. But that moment did me in. I watched them, my friends, two strong, independent, headstrong individuals as they took on a new role in each other's lives. It was a moment I will always remember.

Vidhu and Rohit entered my life in the way that most good friends do. Out of the darkest, deepest, densest blue. I wandered into their house in Glasgow one cold evening and the events that followed have changed the direction of my life. More importantly, I was suddenly introduced to two people who had such a zest for life that it was almost like being around a live wire most of the time. I cannot remember a single dull moment spent with either of them.

Being part of their wedding was like being initiated into a new family. In spite of the North-South divide, it was a pleasure watching both families adjust to the peculiar ways of the other. Sometimes with raised eyebrows, sometimes with stifled grins and sometimes with strangled screams. In the end, however, the warmth and goodwill of both wonderful families triumphed, with all four parents setting the dance floor on fire (this was the highlight of the wedding for a lot of us. Who knew the fathers had such amazing moves in them?)

Needless to say, I had the time of my life. For one, there is nothing like knowing both the bride and groom. It gives you a special place at the wedding, even if you are momentarily befuddled when someone asks you the million dollar which-side-are-you-from question.

So to Vidhu and Rohit. Here's the toast I couldn't raise because I was too busy dancing.

To a couple that is now part of a unit that is older than time itself. To two people who embody the spirit of life in all its cheer. To two people who have the humour, the laughter and the chemistry to make it through every dark cloud.  To togetherness. And companionship. To love, and hope. To the power of promises made and kept. To all the beautiful memories coming your way. To days when you will be each other's saving grace. To that one moment in time that you looked each other in the eye and said a silent prayer.

I hope you have a lifetime of such moments ahead.

Grace

The world needs saving. From the wicked, from the waste, from us all.

The world needs saving because it is hurting. Every day we look from behind shiny glass windows at it- mocking it, ignoring it, turning away from everything good because we have shut ourselves so tightly into pretty glass jars, thinking we can survive with little fairy lights to keep us warm.

I want to save the world because I cannot see it burn and die and be transformed into a barren wasteland where the stars don't burn at night and the rain doesn't wash down to cleanse the soul.

Grace. I want to save the world with grace. I want to open up the one glass jar that has fireflies with hearts filled with goodness, with grace that shines through every fibre of their little beings, fluttering, humming, settling over streets that have forgotten what it means to be human.

I want to save the world from me. And you.

Because we watch silently from the sidelines as hate creeps up our spines and turns stardust into sawdust and the water into wind. We laugh and taunt the breeze until it stills and dies a slow death. We eat up all the trees, greedy for more, swallowing, gobbling, grabbing every leaf until all we are left with is soulless earth. We live with our eyes stitched shut, undoing every act of faith, blind to what needs seeing, deaf to what needs hearing.

I want to save the world before we snuff out all the magic. Of the unknown and the unseen. Before we discover all there is to discover, before we reach a page where we stop making history. Before we forget how awe makes our eyes widen and wonder makes our hearts sing.

I want to save the world. I want to bend down, feel my knees sink into golden sand, and pray. Feel the burning slits on my back as my wings come alive and I take flight.

I want to save the world.

And you should want to save the world too.

Expectation Or The Lack Of It

Some days I wonder what it is that inspired me to teach.

I love the job. I love going in and thinking that today will be different from yesterday. And I learn something new with every class I take.

I don't know it all. It would be boring to know it all. I apologize when I am wrong and I try as hard as I can to come back with the right answers. And even on the bad days, I know I made a good decision.

But the only thing that truly disappoints me is how we have robbed entire generations of the need to appreciate an education as opposed to a syllabus. I love all my classes equally. I share a rapport with all three batches because I am not much older than they are. But the need to pass an exam, to be given a set of notes, the need to appease an archaic and draconian system is all that some students want.

I don't blame them. At all. We have conditioned our students to believe that SSC, HSC and University examinations shape lives. We teach them irrelevant textbook style information, never once wondering what their opinions are on life and the blindsiding questions in it. We worry that they will not ace exams, and don't seem to think it necessary to have them initiate or take part in any kind of discourse. That we are allowing more apathy to set in is our fault, and ours only.

We have many crosses to bear as individuals. But as a society, the biggest, and the heaviest one is our utter disregard for knowledge as a realistic learning tool. We think we are teaching them what they need to know. And yet after thirteen years of education, we have students who have studied History but have no knowledge of the Holocaust. We have students who have been taught rigorous Mathematics for ten years and can only do minimal calculations (me included). And we have students who have no idea what eve-teasing means, or what capital punishment is.

Somebody explain to me how we can be mentoring human beings to be ignorant about genocide and sexual harassment (and this is the tip of the iceberg).

I am appalled sometimes that we allow this. As a society, we send our kids to school, then to class, then to college and tuition, and onward to other such brain-drain factories.

I've been a student before, and I've had both good, efficient and awful, inefficient teachers like everybody else. But if I was back there again, I would ask more of my teachers. I would expect them to open up different worlds to me. I would ask them to listen to my opinion and debate with me. I would have demanded to learn what I needed to know on the job, like the fact that integrity and dignity and attention-to-detail are so much more than just words on paper. And I would expect them to ask the kind of questions that got me thinking. I would expect more inspiration.

I get asked a lot if I didn't expect notes as a student. I get asked if I didn't feel panic before exams. Yes, I felt panic. And yes, I worried that our teachers didn't teach us enough. But I still believe that making my own notes, drawing my own references, answering my own questions is what helped me remember and understand the subject. We weren't spoon-fed and we managed fine. In the end, even those of us who didn't do well in the papers have found their calling, and are excelling at what they do. Unfortunately, you only learn this in hindsight. And giving 20-year-olds advice doesn't help much.

So no, I don't blame my students when they ask me for notes to pass an exam. I do, however, have a massive bone to pick with the education system.

Blank

Blank
Like unadorned paper
And empty eyes.
Like mined souls
And cloudless skies.
Like the minds of the dead
Like waves without rhythm
And hearts without songs.